


one-up

by ggrantaire



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, being in love (:, kissing (:, last name drama (:, married (:, silly fluff (:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 05:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14825810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggrantaire/pseuds/ggrantaire
Summary: “Actually, I don’t care whether you hyphenate your name or not,” Simon says, nonchalant. Smug. He knows Grimm-Pitch-Snow isn’t an option.Bastard.Baz kisses him.Idiot.How the fuck is he going to top this?





	one-up

**Author's Note:**

> look. i know i should be working on like storms.  
> but i finally read Carry On and naturally i was drafting fic before I'd even finished, it can't be helped

“I would have never proposed to you if I’d known you were going to change your surname to _Snow-Pitch_.” Baz’s voice dips as he says it, expression pained in the most visceral way. He can barely stand to look at Simon’s moronic face right now, and as soon as he manages it, he regrets it.

Simon’s expression is everything Baz’s isn’t: A dopey smile, eyes wide and bright. Cocky with having won something. _Because he_ did _win, the fucker_. He replies, “You can change yours to Pitch-Snow, if you want.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I don’t _bloody think so_.” Because then Simon really would win. If Baz just did the same thing as him—and what’s worse, _upon_ Snow’s suggestion—it would be a concession, a concession that Simon had already played the best joke, that he’d already claimed the trump card. “Snow-Pitch,” Baz says again, voice dripping with the most revolting muddle of fondness and contempt, “It sounds like a severe weather event.”

Simon is practically dissolving in laughter. From his position lying with his head in Baz’s lap, he reaches up and pulls Baz’s lips to his.

“Actually, I don’t care whether you hyphenate your name or not,” Simon says, nonchalant. _Smug_. He knows Grimm-Pitch-Snow isn’t an option.

_Bastard_. Baz kisses him.

_Idiot_.

How the fuck is he going to top this?

There are limited options, at this point. The wedding is already over—there won’t be any wearing the wrong color tie or fucking up their vows—and now they’ve already moved into their apartment—there will be no bewitching Simon’s moving boxes to be stuck to the ceiling. And none of those would have topped Simon Snow changing his entire name, anyway.

_Moron_.

It isn’t true, though, that he wouldn’t have proposed—even though it does mean losing _this_ particular match so miserably. Baz had wanted Simon to move in with him, in a new place, and he’d been dropping hints for months (Complaining about Bunce’s books on the coffee table, saying that _in our apartment, one day, we’ll own at least one singular bookshelf, don’t you think, Snow?_ ; moaning about how far Simon’s place was from his; grumbling about the fact that there was never anything to drink around there; picking Simon up at his graduation and whispering into his ear, _Can’t we get our own place now?_ ). He’s pretty sure Snow wanted it, too, but since Baz brought it up first, he was being more stubborn than usual.

So Baz had proposed.

(He’d been dropping hints about _that_ for months, too.)

And Simon couldn’t say no, even as a joke.

“You’re _insufferable_ ,” Baz mutters, pushing Simon from his lap.

He yelps as he slips from the couch and hits the floor, arm extended in a flimsy attempt to catch himself.

It’s only a small, momentary consolation, but it’s enough for now—because Baz Pitch doesn’t lose. and he doesn’t plan to start now.

* * *

 

He wonders when Simon even had time to change his name. How he accomplished it without Baz noticing. Because unless you’re a woman taking her husband’s last name, the process is convoluted and takes time, which is a fact that Baz learned just yesterday when he started wondering if _Grimm-Pitch-Snow_ really would be the best comeback. Ultimately, however, he decided that that would only make _him_ look stupid, and it would be too much work, to boot.

From his spot on the couch, Baz groans, sinking back into the cushions and casting a desolate, irritated look around their new living room—a look more scornful than the quaint room deserves. He could magick the apartment upside down or turn all of Simon’s white shirts pink or hide his new, stupid driving license with his new, stupid name on it, but none of it would be as good and that’s just the facts. Baz can recognize facts—he isn’t five-years old.

That doesn’t mean he has to admit his loss to Simon, though.

“How’s the revenge coming?” Simon asks him that night, as if he can smell Baz’s defeat.

“Perfectly, thank you,” Baz replies without missing a beat. He puts his phone on the bedside table and begins adjusting his pillows, “You’re really in for it this time.”

“Oh, like I was in for it when you did all my homework for me that night during last semester?”

Damn it. He’d almost forgotten about that. Another loss on Baz’s side. (He thought it would piss Simon off if he came home to find that Baz had magicked his homework complete. Spoiler: It hadn’t.) Baz doesn’t dignify the retort with a response. He merely curls into the covers and closes his eyes; he hears Simon’s laugh from the bathroom.

A minute later, he feels Simon crawling into bed beside him, his curls flopping messily over his face, still damp from his shower. He’s grinning like a maniac. Baz raises his palm, presses it to Simon’s cheek, and pushes his face the opposite direction. Snow is laughing, though, and retaliates by closing his mouth around one of Baz’s fingers.

Simon: 2. Baz: 0.

“Why, I—”

Still he laughs, even as Baz jumps on top of him and pins his wrists to the mattress in feigned outrage. He won’t stop laughing, though, and his smile is a fucking trap. Baz crumbles. It’s a lost cause trying to stay mad at him, even when that anger is half-faked. _Snow-Pitch_ he’d changed his name to. It’s completely stupid—and Baz can’t stand how much he loves it. He loves that Simon would be soppy enough to hyphenate his name, and he loves that he would be conniving enough to do it just to fuck with him. Baz is just mad he doesn’t know how to top it. Possibly he simply can’t.

It’s going to drive him mad.

Even so, Baz presses a kiss to Simon’s temple, to the side of his mouth, to his lips, not releasing his wrists even as his mouth sinks lower—to his collarbone, to his chest, to his ribs. This is at least one thing Baz can win right now: Simon’s breath hitching, his skin burning, his back arching. Under his hands, under his lips, Simon’s knees are weak and his lungs are heavy; he tangles his fingers in Baz’s hair and breathlessly begs him not to stop.

As if he would.

This feels like a different sort of prize.

When Baz finally steals his breath from him completely, he lingers to press kisses to his thighs, to draw residual shudders from his spine. Baz drags his lips across his jaw before hovering just above Simon with the smallest of smirks. Simon almost rolls his eyes at the expression, head dropping to his pillow.

“Admit you lost.”

“Hm?” Baz hums, feigning dumb.

“I changed my name, I win,” he insists. His voice is almost swallowed by the sound of his breathing.

“ _Oh_ ,” is the crooned response. With a single finger, Baz guides Simon’s face to the side, and then he closes his lips against his ear. “I wouldn’t say it’s over yet. I could still turn you into a vampire while you sleep.”

“That would be a bummer,” Simon replies, too cool for the way Baz’s tongue had touched his skin as he spoke, “I’d rather be awake for it.”

So Baz lowers his lips to Simon’s neck, which he consequently extends to give better access.

Scoffing, Baz shakes his head as he pulls back—grinning. “You have a death wish, Simon Snow.”

But Simon only shrugs, ever too confident for his own good. “Killing me might be taking the joke too far.” He pauses, then corrects: “ _Snow-Pitch_.”

For a blurred second, killing him _doesn’t_ seem like it would be taking it too far. Baz considers smothering that look right off his face, but then Simon’s pushing him onto his back and tugging at his shirt, and suddenly hitting him with a pillow seems a sufficient punishment. So he does. Half a shriek leaves Simon’s lips as the pillow collides with the side of his face, and then his laughter continues, bubbling up and escaping—his lips are against Baz’s hipbone, spilling the sound against his skin.

“Admit you lose.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Simon can only roll his eyes and lower his lips once again.

Momentarily, Simon distracts him from the ordeal. It doesn’t take much, truly, just a few well-placed kisses. A curious touch. Baz is far too easy, and Simon whispers that he loves it as he presses a kiss to his mussed hair.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles but pulls Simon’s lips to his all the same.

He’s so inanely in love with him. He’s in love with Simon enough that he can _almost_ concede that maybe he should drop the whole revenge act. Maybe he could just admit that Simon one-upped him—by being both cunning and sweet. Because as atrocious as _Snow-Pitch_ sounds, it’s sweet, and maybe Baz can just accept it.

He trails a finger along Simon’s jaw, across his chest. He looks up at Baz, and under his lashes, his eyes are dark and deep. They’re terribly normal eyes, and yet Baz’d know them anywhere. He could admit a loss to those eyes. Probably.

Simon wouldn’t have to _know_.

Maybe one day Baz could put rotten eggs in his shoes, but for now, maybe he can accept (silently) his defeat.

Unless— _unless_ —

* * *

 

Lately, Simon isn’t accustomed to the feeling of winning things when it comes to Baz. Baz is always doing things first, doing them better: His graduation had been two days earlier than Simon’s, his GPA .2 higher than his, and to top it all off, he’d proposed to Simon first (Simon had _had_ a ring, Baz just got to it faster). So the name thing is Simon’s first _real_ win in at least a few months.

But now Baz is _lurking_. Scheming. Trying to take his victory away from him.

Simon will be absolutely, completely damned if that happens. There’s no way.

He’s been getting nervous, though. It’s been weeks, and Baz has given no sign that he’s giving up so far—except that he’s gone curiously mute on the subject. But still he _acts_ like he’s conspiring. All of it has been making Simon wonder if there should be a statute of limitations on matters of revenge—and the statute should be six days. Because it took him seven to get his name change approved.

He drums his fingers against the countertop, and from the kitchen, he watches Baz sulk.

He’s just sitting on the couch with his laptop in his lap, but Simon knows that furrowed brow. That index finger pressed to his lips. The frazzled look in his eyes. He’s being entirely too quiet, and he’s been that way the past couple of days. He’d almost let himself think that Baz was okay with losing, but the thought is inconceivable. Baz doesn’t take things silently.

He’s _up_ to something.

_Or maybe I’m just being paranoid_ , he thinks.

“Can you admit I’ve won?” Simon asks, abruptly breaking the silence of the living room, leaning against the kitchen counter to rest his chin in his palm.

Baz looks up with a wicked look in his eye—or maybe that’s his normal eye, Simon can’t always tell—and he pronounces each syllable: “Never.”

But then he’s laughing and so is Simon, and it feels like as much of an admission of loss as he’ll ever get. Sometimes Baz is just like that.

Perhaps _next_ week he’ll give a real concession.

He doesn’t get his hopes up, though. And it’s one night next week, just after calling in their usual take-out order, that Simon starts thinking about it again. He hates to be a sore winner, but there comes a point when it’s just ridiculous that Baz won’t just let him have this one thing. He starts moving books off the kitchen table to make room for dinner. Somehow the thing always collects junk, and they have to clear it every time they want to use it (which, to be fair, isn’t often), but the fact that Simon needs to confront Baz about his clear and obvious win seems like a sit-down-dinner topic. He brushes crumbs from its surface and hangs keys up on the hook by the door. He shoves his own wallet into his back pocket, and he’s just about to toss Baz’s onto the coffee table when he notices it.

A corner of his driving license is sticking out of the top of the worn wallet like a beacon: Brand new, shiny—just a corner of a pristine ID, just waiting for Simon to find it. His eyes fly up, expecting to see Baz lurking across the room with an awful smirk on his face, but the room is empty and their bedroom door is shut.

With a masochistic bit of curiosity, Simon flips open Baz’s wallet.

And for a second he thinks he’s forgotten how to read.

“ _Tyrannus. Basilton. Grimm-Pitch_.” His voice elevates with each name, cumulating in a tone of absolute disbelief, remaining, however, barely louder than his usual voice.

Baz hears him.

_The bastard_ , of course he hears him, and he opens the door to their bedroom with an innocuously innocent expression. Eyebrows raised. Lips parted. He can’t maintain the façade, though; the moment his eyes land on the object in Simon’s hands, his face dissolves into a terrible, sharp smile. Smugly, horribly, Baz replies with the grandest of grins, “I think you mean _Snow_.”

Simon cannot read. He absolutely cannot read. There is no way that the ID in his hands reads _Tyrannus Basilton Snow_ , and _yet_ —

Simon thinks he’s going to have to kiss the smug look off Baz’s face.

If he doesn’t kill him first.

“Checkmate,” Baz pronounces, swooping in to beat him to the kiss.


End file.
